


Sheep and Wolves

by SupremeBotDaddy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Killer!Fenrir, M/M, Mommy Issues, No Smut, Past Sexual Abuse, People being called "it", killer!harry, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 20:11:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15080813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupremeBotDaddy/pseuds/SupremeBotDaddy
Summary: Humans are sheep. Mindless. Absolutely everywhere, spending their days just living normal lives. Until one sheep reveals itself to be a wolf in disguise. A wolf in sheep's clothing.He had always known something was wrong with him. Mother dearest was always sure to remind him of it. Perhaps that was why she was his first victim. His practice. It felt good to sink that knife into her flesh, to hear her screams for him to stop. But why did he still feel so empty?He had come from a well off family. No one would have expected him to go into the career he had chosen, but he had been able to charm his parents into covering it up. He was a skilled manipulator; he could play anyone to believe anything he wanted them to. The only joy he found was in cutting open his victims, revealing their inner secrets to the world. He called it "freeing the soul."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Earth_Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earth_Phoenix/gifts).



The cloyingly thick scent of blood was heavy in the air, almost suffocating in the darkness. He would have choked on it if he wasn’t used to it. His keen eyes could just barely make out the mottled pale form at his feet. It hadn’t been _his_ own work, but he almost wished that it was. The skin was flayed so beautifully, exposing its secret organs beneath it. The sternum was cracked open with the ribs pulled apart to reveal the lungs and heart. He _loved_ it. It was a work of art. But yet, it was messy. So sloppy that he couldn’t stand it, even as he stood and admired the gorgeous sack of meat and bones that lay split open. He couldn’t stay for long. He had a masterpiece of his own to create.

Sheep. That’s what the normal people were. Just fluffy, stupid sheep. Endlessly grazing and going about their lives without a care in the world. But people like him were wolves. They pretended to be sheep, but once one has chosen someone for the slaughter… He sat in a mostly empty cafe, staring at his laptop as he thought these thoughts. The document he was supposed to be writing in was still blank. He sighed. No inspiration came to him for this article. After all, the subject matter was boring. A thing meant for mindless sheep like his colleagues, his mailman, the barista, the health nuts that complain about gluten and GMOs! This was not something for him, an artist, to write. He sighed once more in frustration before putting his fingers to the keyboard. He was determined to write. Or was he? He couldn’t tell through his own act.

Screaming, helplessly into the silence, at the killer before him. Let me be free! He pleaded to deaf ears as the shadowy form drew closer. A blade glinted and there was a pain before a spatter of blood came from his throat; the crimson fluid staining his skin and his clothes as it poured from his flesh.. He gurgled and choked, struggling to breathe. All he saw was a twisted smirk. A wet, gasping breath spilled from him. He couldn’t breathe, his vision was going black, was he dying? No, he couldn’t die yet. He needed--

He awoke with a start. His body burned with lust. He couldn’t contain himself. Quickly, he prepared himself to go out. He needed to hunt, to kill. Lust for him wasn’t sex. He didn’t need sex. Sex repulsed him to his core; especially after witnessing his whore of a mother during his childhood. He hastily grabbed his supplies and shoved them into a backpack, slinging it over his shoulder before leaving his home.

It would have been pretty if its face wasn't caked with make-up. Make-up to hide the scars given to it by previous johns, no doubt. It was easy to lure. It was quick to let her guard down. He would have almost felt sorry for its... innocence, he could say. It had no way of knowing that he wasn't interested in it for sex. It couldn't read him like he could read it. It was desperate to have good things said about it; so that it wouldn't be punished by its pimp. Its eyes held no happiness, no relief to be alive another day. It reminded him of his _mother._ The thought of _her_ enraged him, made him itch to kill the whore right then, but he took a breath to calm himself. It stank of its perfume. Suavely, he gave _it_ a smile. It couldn't have been more than eighteen. A runaway then. Perfect.

Fenrir Greyback was going to have the closest thing to _fun_ that he could feel. He could feel it. His blood and nerves thrummed with adrenaline, already excited for the kill. He ached to carve into it, to paint it into a masterpiece. Humans, no, sheep were only there for a wolf's enjoyment. They weren't _real_ , not like Fenrir was real. They lived and died so _easily_. A wolf like Fenrir could so easily hunt his perfect prey, a million times over, just in the span of ten minutes from how _open_ people were. Fenrir didn't know whether he loved it or not. It was annoying to go throughout his day with no intentions of hunting when suddenly he would see the _perfect_ target that he couldn't go after. It would take all of his willpower to not get his gear and do as he pleased right there and then. 

He looked back at it, glancing at its exposed legs and low cut top. He barely could get over his disgust at the vulgarity at which it looked at him with. It assumed he paid for sex. Fenrir supposed that's a reasonable conclusion considering that it was a prostitute. He was already sick of its voice, the way it talked, the way it _touched_ him. He didn't even want it to touch the _air_ around him. He needed to deal with it as soon as possible. He donned his gloves slowly then grabbed his chloroform rag, pressing the fabric to its nose and mouth roughly. It struggled weakly against his grasp, muffled cries coming from its lips. He sneered in disgust as its make-up smeared onto the soaked rag. A few moments later, it fell limp against him. He pushed it away angrily and let it rest against the passenger side door. Its make-up was now smeared; it was uglier than when it was still awake.

Fenrir had tied it against a wooden pole; its wrists were raised high above its head, hung upon a metal hook that was driven deep into the wood. Its toes were just barely touching the ground and its ankles were tied to the pole. He had stripped it of its skimpy clothing; not to humiliate it, but to better see where and how he would _carve_ it. He glanced toward its face when it stirred. Its eyes opened and it took a glance around before starting to panic. It struggled against the ropes, terrified whimpers escaping from around the gag in her mouth. Fenrir simply watched her.

"Struggling will get you nowhere," He said suddenly. It stopped for a moment and looked at him, tears already wetting its cheeks. "It's pointless."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the reason Fenrir is calling the prostitute an "it" is because that's what he does with his victims. He doesn't exclusively kill women, though a lot of women trigger his rage toward his mother. Fenrir is quite a prolific killer and his perfect victim range is very broad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone except Fenrir gets to meet Harry lolol

Fenrir was frustrated. He couldn’t get the same quality of artistic value that the one he had found before had. No matter how he cut and opened, it just didn’t turn out right. He growled and jabbed his knife between the body’s ribs with a wet splat. Blood spattered against his skin and stained his clothes. A form of anger twisted itself in his gut, boiling and seething. He so desperately wanted to make something as pretty as what he had seen earlier, but he was unable to. He stared at the marred corpse tied to the wooden pole staked into the ground. Its intestines spilled out of the torn abdomen; to Fenrir, it seemed almost like it was the body’s last attempt to escape from the binds that held it in place, even if it had lost its life long before Fenrir had started to have fun. Its pathetic whimpers and muffled cries for mercy had fallen upon deaf ears as he ripped and tore into delicate flesh. He savored the softness of the meat and the slick blood that coated his hands. 

He hummed lightly as he surveyed his choices. Which one would he take, he wondered. Perhaps he wouldn’t take one. His trophy would be the memories. The sweet memories of another life he had taken, another life he watched fade before his eyes. He adored the feeling of a slowing heart, the pump of blood slowly ceasing, until gravity was all that brought it aflow. He shook his head in an attempt to focus on what he was doing. To take a trophy, or to not? He couldn’t decide. Fenrir growled in frustration before finally deciding that he didn’t need a trophy from it. It had nothing of interest to him. Carefully, he started to clean up his workshop; he scrubbed away at the floor and his tools, making sure every drop of blood and evidence was long washed away. He had placed his failed artwork in a large trash bag so that he could work without it dirtying up the place again. He gave the room a last onceover to make sure he had gotten everything; he took extra precautions to make sure the bag with his work wouldn’t break and spill his sloppiness before he heaved it into his trunk. 

The next morning was slow and uneventful. Fenrir was no closer to finishing his article than he had been the day before. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, almost feeling regret for needing to hunt last night. No, he thought, he had  _ needed _ that. Now he had to get on with his day and write his damn article before his boss got on his case about missing the deadline.  _ You could just kill him, _ a little voice whispered to him.

“Another person would just take his place,” He grumbled as he opened his laptop. “No point to doing that, and it would just be idiotic. First place cops would look: family and workplace associates.” He forced himself to focus on the article he was supposed to be writing but then groaned in dismay after a few minutes. “Fucking hell!” 

* * *

“Mother dearest, would you be so kind as to cancel my counselling today?” Harry asked in a sweet tone. It didn’t take too much for him to win her over, but sometimes she would try to fight him on getting his way which meant that he would have to dial up his sweetness. Lily Potter glanced to her only child, who looked at her with such puppy eyes that she had no choice but to give in with a sigh.

“I’ll call him on my way to work,” She said then bit her lip. “But… Don’t leave the house. Your… hobby has been showing up on the news more and more.” Harry gave her his most charming smile.

“As you wish,” He purred. He knew automatically that he wouldn’t be respecting her wishes, but he could easily get her to forgive him. Apologize profusely, maybe shed a few crocodile tears, and then she’ll start crying and forgive him. Piece of cake, Harry thought. “Have a good day, mother.” Lily smiled and planted a motherly kiss on Harry’s cheek.

“You as well, Harry,” She responded. She gathered her things, grabbed her purse, and waved goodbye to Harry before she left. Harry smirked once the door was closed and locked. How he enjoyed his mother’s undying love for him, no matter what he did. He knew he couldn’t rely on it for everything, but it definitely was helpful for most things. Now, he thought, it was time to go have some fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter ; n ;

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed it, and I'm hoping to update at least somewhat regularly...


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